


Scars

by bukkunkun



Series: Spades [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Baking, Cardverse, Crying, Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 11:52:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bukkunkun/pseuds/bukkunkun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cardverse!AU. He'll see. He'll see what it's like to mess with Arthur Kirkland, ex-pirate king and Queen of the Kingdom of Spades and Northern Fantasia! USUK, mindless fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Moved here from LJ/FF.net.

“Nope, not this time, babe. Sorry.”

 

The strawberry blonde-haired King looked to his right, where his beloved little Queen sat, the expectant—almost _nervous_ —look on his pretty doll-like face had melted into one of disappointment, the shining green emeralds of his eyes that rivalled that of the King of Club’s crown jewels glimmering as they filled with tears that threatened to spill. Those full lips the King had loved kissing curled into a pout and his Queen’s hands fisted in the smooth cloth of the baby blue apron around his waist as he tried not to cry.

 

“Man, you really don’t know how to quit, do you?” he laughed, and his Queen’s brilliant green eyes widened. “Your cooking just won’t get any better, you know.” He looked at his wife, and almost melted upon seeing the hurt look on Arthur’s face. How he loved it when his Queen looked like this— dismayed, pleading, and yet still slightly clinging onto hope. He smiled. “After all, sponge cake is my favourite. I don’t really want to see it get ruined before my eyes, Artie-babe.”

 

He flashed his Queen an award-winning smile, and he could see Arthur’s pale cheeks turn a delicate shade of pink, and his brilliant eyebrows knotted together as he scowled at his King, tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

 

“I-it’s not like I’m making these because they’re your favourite, you git,” Arthur stuttered, looking away from the man, the shade of pink quickly turning bright red. Quickly, with grace of a dove with its feathers ruffled, his flustered Queen stood up, and turned away. “Throw it away, then, _Your Majesty_ , since you really hate it so much. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He huffed, before scurrying away.

 

Alfred smiled to himself, leaning back in his seat, as his Jack, Yao walked up to him, his small bifocals perched delicately on the bridge of his nose.

 

“Your Majesty, if I may, the paper works…?” he said, eyeing Arthur’s “sponge cake” sitting quietly by itself on Alfred’s china plate. “… What on earth is that?”

 

The question was expressed more as a statement than a question, and Alfred laughed, standing up; as soon as he did, a servant was at his side, cleaning up the utensils and the burnt sponge cake.

 

“Oh, um, about the cake,” Alfred spoke, and the servant immediately stilled. “Put it with the others at where I usually have them placed.”

 

“Of course, Your Majesty.” The manservant nodded, and the Kind turned back to his Jack, who shook his head. “What, Yao? Is there something on my face?”

 

“Why do you have to bother the Queen to go out of his way to make you something, and then insult him for it? Such behaviour is completely unethical… not to mention rude.” he said, gesturing for Alfred to follow him to the King’s study, where the paper work he had abandoned temporarily for his beloved Queen was still waiting for him, still unfinished. The man walked with him, laughing loudly at what he said. Yao frowned at his King’s conduct, but continued, “Why not ask the servants? I’m sure they can make something more… palatable, and that way you’d stop hurting your wife like some inconsiderate—ah, forgive me, I got carried away.”

 

“Nah,” the man laughed, patting Yao heavily on the back, “It’s totally fine, Yao. As for Artie, well, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He flashed his Jack a grin, “Now come on, whose land do we need to partition today?”

 

\---

 

“Stupid git,” Arthur muttered under his breath as he pulled his sleeves up, glowering at the ingredients he had gathered in front of him, as a small gaggle of fairies gathered by the Queen’s head, one gently perching on top of his small hat, wide, curious eyes looking at him as he exasperatedly checked the recipe for a simple sponge cake, noting the number of eggs he had taken with him (“Five too many, Arthur,” the youngest fairy had tried to tell the Queen, but he was far too distracted by his husband’s words) and whatnot, until he had convinced himself he had all the required ingredients present.

 

Huffing slightly to himself, he strode over to the other side of his personal kitchen (Yao had practically _begged_ Alfred to have it built so that the Queen would have space to ‘cook’, and not have to bother the castle cooks, who all had to stop working to make sure their beloved Queen would not accidentally impale his delicate self on anything sharp) and gathered bowls, baking pans and other utensils. When he gathered them all, he set them all down on the counter opposite the counter that had the ingredients, before taking a large mixing bowl and bringing it to the wooden table in the middle of the kitchen.

 

“Aoife, Rohesia,” Arthur called the name of the eldest fairy—coincidentally, sitting on top of his hat, and one of her sisters, “Please be a dear and bring the recipe here,” he asked her nicely, turning around to pick up a mixing spatula from one of the drawers above his head.

 

The two fairies, with some difficulty, managed to bring the recipe to their dear friend, and smiling gently at them, he took it from them, before furrowing his brow, examining the piece of paper that had one of his (admittedly many) ladies-in-waiting’s (yet some of them were not even ladies, after all, it was a mere title, nothing more, much like his own as the Queen of his country) neat handwriting, instructing him on how to make his husband’s favourite cake.

 

Not that he was making it because Alfred liked it, of course! He was going to make it solely to make his husband take back what he said about him not able to cook…

 

_“Your cooking just won’t get any better, you know.”_

Arthur shook his head, feeling tears prick his eyes.

 

He’ll see. He’ll see what it’s like to mess with Arthur Kirkland, ex-pirate king and Queen of the Kingdom of Spades and Northern Fantasia!

 

Arthur warily eyed the mixing bowl, mixing spatula in one hand, and nodded.

 

Yes, he had lost an eye and a leg before (he had the fairies restore them, don’t tell Alfred about this!), what was baking his dear _loving_ King his favourite sponge cake?

 

\---

 

Apparently, it was much worse than having his eye gouged out by some wine-breath old man after he had rejected his advances on, or having his leg torn off by the Kraken itself as he voyaged, free as a bird across the raging seas as he freely pillaged from Diamonds ships.

 

He was now currently wondering where the countless cuts on his fingers had come from after shoving his hands into the dough—wait, sponge cakes were usually not this viscous, right? Oh, well. No matter. Hissing in pain, Arthur quickly pulled out his hands from the dough, his blood dripping from the countless more-than-skin-deep cuts he had gotten.

 

“But the recipe didn’t even _need_ knives!” Arthur protested, looking at the piece of paper spread out beside him, “What happened?”

 

“I think it is the eggs, Arthur?” Ceridwen, the youngest fairy, offered, flitting gently onto the distraught Queen’s shoulder, looking uneasily into the red-stained sponge cake ‘dough’. “When you added them?”

 

“How? I put them in the batter like the recipe said,” the blonde said, “All eight of them, straight into the bowl.”

 

“How very odd,” Muirne, a yellow fairy piped up, “They even cracked properly in the mixture, maybe we need more flour?”

 

“… Cracked?” Arthur asked, inspecting his hands—and he suddenly realized where the wounds had come from. “This isn’t happening!” he wailed, sinking to his knees to glumly sit on the floor, and the fairies quickly came to the Queen’s side to aid him as fat tears rolled down his cheeks, looking up at his ruined batter-cum-dough, although it looked more like a bloody, angular mochi (the funny, roundish one that Queen Kiku had brought with him once, it looked suspiciously like his husband Alfred but he did not comment when Crumpet, his dear Scottish Fold had started munching on it, of course, with Hero, Alfred’s humongous—no larger than a small dog—American Longhair, mirroring his cat’s actions with a more… vigorous, ah, hearty, manner)  than anything else. Rohesia lifted her hand, water lifting from a nearby pitcher and cleaning up Arthur’s bleeding wounds. Together, the fairies conjured up a leaf-bandage they wrapped around the sobbing Queen’s trembling fingers.

 

“Worry not, dear, Arthur,” Aoife gently said to him when they had finished, “You’ll get it right next time.”

 

“Oh, Aoife.” The Queen shakily sighed, “I don’t know if I can,” he gingerly lifted his newly-bandaged hand to wipe at his tears, when Ceridwen had beat him to it, wiping as much as she could away with her mauve spider-silk skirt. “Dear friends, I always end up like this, bleeding, or hurt, and every time, every bloody time,” he took a shuddering breath, “That git too full of himself never even once at least tried to appreciate what I do for him!”

 

Whining softly, he leaned back to rest his back on the kitchen wall, his tears falling with a small _plop_ on the large blue bow tied under his chin.

 

“Oh, dear Arthur,” the fairies sighed, all giving him comforting pats on his puffed-up cheeks. “We know you love your husband very much.”

 

“O-of course I do,” the Queen shakily replied, “But he hates me. He always makes fun of me.”

 

The fairies looked at each other. It _was_ true the royal couple had yet to touch intimately, both either too shy (well, _Arthur_ was, but the exact opposite could be said for his horny husband Alfred) or too tired to do anything but to keep to his own side of the bed and feign sleep until the wee hours of the morning. The two only went up to kissing and holding hands—always, always initiated (rather awkwardly and shyly) by the shy, rosy-cheeked Queen.

 

Alfred’s love was hard to doubt, though, the fairies knew, because every time Arthur would cook something, Alfred was sure to eat it, up to the very last crumb—at least, not when Arthur was around. The man would have a servant bring it up to his study, placed in a delicate blue box and tied with a silk ribbon, like it were from a high-class bakery, and then, whilst working on his people’s matters, he would eat it all, a happy, contented smile on his face as he sipped at his coffee, casually eating whatever burnt confectionary Arthur had offered him, no matter how bad it had tasted; as long as it was made by his lovely little Queen, he would eat it.

 

Yet now lay the problem—how do they show this to Arthur?

 

“Arthur, dearest, Arthur,” Muirne suddenly spoke up, voicing out the unspoken message she and her sisters had shared through their collective consciousness. “Why don’t you go up to your dear King’s study and ask him how he thinks of you? He’s a very honest man, you know.”

 

“I can’t do that,” Arthur protested, “He is the King, I can’t just—“

 

“But he _is_ your husband.” Aoife smiled, “Go on, dear. Run along.”

 

Arthur uneasily looked at them, and they all looked back at him, their eyes telling him only one message.

 

“ _Trust us._ ”

 

\---

 

“Alfred!” Arthur cried out, bursting into the man’s study without warning. “I have something to ask… of… you.” The words died on his lips upon seeing his King, sitting at his desk, feet on the said piece of furniture, a small china plate on his lap (and a larger one on the table), holding a fork that had a bit of the burnt sponge cake Arthur had made earlier on. The man, surprised, almost fell out of his seat, quickly rescuing the plate of burnt cake on his lap and put it on the table right next to the other plate that had the rest. Quickly he stood up and made his way to his Queen. Arthur merely stared at him owlishly from where he stood at the doorway.

 

“Oh, hi, babe,” Alfred smiled, embarrassed, as a flush spread across his cheeks as he approached. “I’ve been caught red-handed, huh?” he said, spreading his arms. “Damn, this is embarrassing.”

 

Arthur bit his lip, and tears flowed from his beautiful green eyes. Alfred’s blue eyes, clear as the summer sky at noontime, widened and he gently held his Queen’s shoulders. “A-Artie? Babe?”

 

“Y-you git!” the shorter blonde sobbed, weakly pounding his fists into the man’s broad torso. “T-this is all your fault!” gingerly, he stopped pounding Alfred’s chest and wrapped his arms around the man.

 

Alfred looked at him, confused momentarily, but a gentle smile blossomed across his face, before stroking his Queen’s silky hair.

 

“I-I worked so hard and everything,” Arthur mumbled into Alfred’s chest, “B-but all you ever did was insult w-what I made, and—“

 

He was cut off when Alfred gently took his Queen’s chin and lifted his head, before gently pressing their lips together. Pulling away, Alfred smiled at him, and his wife’s pale cheeks quickly turned into a beautiful shade of red.

 

“I know you were working hard,” he said uncharacteristically gently, taking one of Arthur’s bandaged hands (earning him a gasp from his Queen, he had forgotten to remove them in his rush) and gently kissed the exposed fingertips. “Do you think I’m blind? Of course I could see your cuts. I know you were doing your best.”

 

“B-but then w-why…?”

 

“Because you were too cute to not tease,” Alfred chuckled, and Arthur flushed.

 

“G-git.” Arthur mumbled, and Alfred laughed, lovingly bringing their foreheads together.

 

“So, are you still mad at me, babe?” he asked, intertwining their hands, fingers lacing with each other perfectly. Smiling, the taller blonde drew his thumb across their matching wedding bands—simple golden rings, symbols of their undying love.

 

“N-no.” Arthur said, and Alfred smiled, before kissing him again.

 

“That’s wonderful.” He said—reluctantly preparing himself to turn away—

 

“A-Alfred?”

 

“Yes, babe?”

 

“I-if you’d like, w-we can…” Arthur fell silent and looked down at his feet, his face now beetroot red. “We can do want you wanted to… do… You know. Tonight.” He looked up at his husband and Alfred gaped at him.

 

“Serious?”

 

Arthur could only nod shyly.

 

“Well, then what are we waiting for?” Alfred smiled brightly all of a sudden, and the next thing Arthur knew is that he was lying down underneath his King, the two of them snug against each other in their shared canopy bed.

 

“A-Alfred, wait,” Arthur said breathlessly, as his husband tugged at his ribbon.

 

“What is it, babe?” he asked.

 

Shyly, Arthur wrapped his arms around the back of Alfred’s neck.

 

“I… I love you.” He said, and Alfred smiled.

 

“Me too, Artie.” He said gently, “I love you too.”


End file.
